What Comes After
by Zhelezo
Summary: Five years ago, Harry Potter dueled the great Dark Lord Voldemort to a standstill. Only for his enemy to die from a single reflected spell. But the trouble didn't end there. The corrupt remained corrupt, the evil were just as evil. Now, numerous Dark Lords march across Europe, conquering as they please. One boy will attend Hogwarts, and by his hand the world will change.


Aftermath Chapter 1.

My first Harry Potter Fanfiction. Please enjoy, and if you did send a review!

A crimson scythe swung forward, catching the robed wizard across his chest. The impact spun him, sending drops of blood soaring across the room. Falling to the floor, the wizard tried to stand, only to be tossed down like a toy. Once more the scythe's magic engulfed him. Visions flared inside his head, each a glimpse of his crimes, his sins, his misdeeds. The man who held the scythe with such easy grace seemed to giggle, faced with his own sins. Unlike the wizard he was here to kill, Porthmeus felt no guilt.

The wizard who lay bleeding on the floor had been called legendary once. The talk of the wizarding world. Now years had passed, and the man who was too weak to do what must be done would die. As his friends had, as his family had, and as his children would if Porthmeus killed him. The weakness that crippled him was spun from the great Demon scythe "Haec Cruenta" judging him for each life lost by both his action... And his inaction.

Bleeding from a dozen slashes, his black robes seeped in crimson, the wizard pushed back the nightmarish visions of guilt and aimed his wand at Porthmeus. Though time had passed, he was still an auror, the most powerful of them all. Bloody as he was, he cast a dozen silent spells before Porthmeus could blink.

For the first time in his life, he fought to maim, to break, and to kill. This opponent was after what remained of his family. His cold eyes shone upon the Dark lord wannabe and he shouted, "I'm going to kill you!" as he charged the man, hiding behind his wall of offensive spells.

A trio of small red orbs hurtled forward, leading the pack. These were Reducto Curses, small balls that packed a big punch. A young mage's first trick, they could be strengthened easily by adding magic. When Porthmeus dodged between them, each tore a chunk out of the floor, while the third turned the wall behind him into gravel. Several blue-purple orbs followed closely, each a Flipendo. The simple knockback jinxes had vastly different power levels, and had the last one connected it would have sent Porthmeus flying. And more than likely suffering from a serious case of crushed ribs.

The spells that followed grew darker and darker. No longer was the wizard trying to detain Porthmeus. No, he was out for blood. Narrowly dodging a nearly invisible curse, the shimmer in the air giving it away at the last moment. When it hit the ground, a patch of stone ten feet wide was scrubbed raw. This was an overpowered scouring charm, something no wizard had ever used in combat before. His opponent could think on his feet, and quite well too.

Cutting curse, blasting curse, overpowered binding hex, a superior version of the cutting curse that missed taking his head off by an inch, and an emerald green pulse that looked suspiciously like Avada Kedavra.

The spells had been pitifully easy to dodge, each perfectly on target. That was the problem with learning to aim your spells, they moved so slowly that any half-trained individual could move out of the way with ease. With a duck and a sidestep, the final spells sailed harmlessly over his head. But the enraged wizard was disturbingly close to the scythe wielder, close enough that dodging spells would be difficult at best, impossible at worst.

It was a tactic that would work beautifully on any wizard. Any wizard except Porthmeus. And the Black Legion of course, but those psychos rarely even used magic. Rolling sideways beneath a Protego so powerful it acted like a battering ram, Porthmeus swung his scythe, creating a deep gash in his enemy's leg. With his hamstring almost sliced in two, the man cried out in pain as he fell.

His bleeding had caught up with him, and the wizard couldn't even lift his wand, let alone muster enough energy to cast a spell. Visions plagued his head, visions of his friends his teachers, and everyone else he let down who died because of his weakness. His Godfather, his wife, and then his children entered the visions. Because he was too weak to defeat the scythe-wielder, he was responsible for their deaths. Destiny was cruel in it's judgement, and not even Porthmeus could control how it's scythe judged. It was the end. Of both their fight and his life. Porthmeus looked upon the destroyed wizard, and spoke his first words of the fight.

"You have had your time to shine. Now we arise to claim the stars." The curved red scythe swung down in a brutal arc, eyes carrying the brilliant green of an Avada Kedavra went dim, and the legacy of Harry Potter was no more.

Intra Morte, Vitae Conflorens. A simple but honest statement. The unofficial official slogan of John Cheke, and his son Rowan. The two-man family lived in modest comfort, owning a simple 3 bed, 2 bath, one story house. A house, not a home. There is a difference you know.

John cheke woke with the American roosters, which is quite early considering there home is smack dab in the middle of the London outskirts. Just far enough away that traveling anywhere constituted a short drive, or a long walk. It was peaceful. At least most mornings. This one was shaping up to be rather... Unique.

John did what he liked to call a touch of home repair. This meant; moving the lawn, fixing the fence, replacing the sink nozzle, working on the backyard aqueduct (Don't ask), improving on the pond (REALLY don't ask), tacking in some new roofing tiles, and re-laquering several doors. Once the sun was up, he stopped for a coffee break, then went back to work.

This was around the point where his son awoke. Rowan was by no means an early-riser (What eleven year old was?), but when your dad was bristling with energy by the crack of dawn you learned to get up early. Did he still think his father was insane for waking up when he did? Yes. Big time yes. But if he were honest -and his father weren't around to hear- Rowan would admit to enjoying rising with the sun. There was an odd calm when the sun first hit their little house. Like all the world was frozen in time. Serene and peaceful. In that one slice of time, all the worlds problems vanished. It was just him and the sunrise.

Unfortunately, today was the kind of day that went downhill and back up so fast you might as well sell tickets. It started with a busted pipe, which father and son spent two hours working on before the father aspect decided they needed a new part to repair it. This meant a trip to the mall, and maybe a chance to burn some spending money on a new game.

Needless to say, Rowan was ecstatic. But the mall was not without it's dangers. With the arrival of summer vacation, those common dangers of the mall had skyrocketed. They were everywhere, and never stopped being a pain to deal with. The name of these terrible dangers? Teenage girls.

As soon as Rowan turned eleven his dad started to bug him, asking incessantly when he was going to start going for the girls. A question Rowan still couldn't figure out. Why would he go for them? Where would he go? Why would he want to? All he saw was loud, obnoxious, and shrill, wrapped together in a package that wore less clothes than a boy at the beach.

This time was no different, John nudging Rowan every chance he got and pointing in the general direction of a clutch of "gigglers". He'd ask, "So what about her Rowan? You think she's hot?" Or something like that. To which a very confused Rowan would reply, "Dad! It's not even eighty degrees outside, and it doesn't look like she's been running. Why would she be hot?" John would always pat his son's head, have a good laugh, and give the cryptic, "I'll explain it when you get older." that parents seem to love.

At the mall, Rowan dodged many groups of the dreaded "gigglers" made it into gamestop, wheedled spending money out of his dad, and picked up one of the newer games. Eager to play, the boy met up with his dad in the construction store, and practically dragged John back to the car.

Fixing the pipe as quickly as possible, Rowan broke a land speed record getting to his video game sanctuary. It was almost noon by this point. Just as his energetic fingers were about to hit the start button, dragging him into a azure sea of violence and combat, flimsily duct-taped to a recyclable plot arc... Three knocks came from the front door.

John was covered in dirt and sweat as he re-buried the pipe that had been broken, so he was in no condition to answer the door. Which meant Rowan had to get it. The screen sang it's siren call, beckoning him to press play and loose himself in it for hours. But if it was important and he ignored it, his dad would be irritated. And an irritated dad meant father-son bonding time in the form of early morning home improvement. A punishment worse than any torture.

With a huff, Rowan dropped his controller and went to the front door. Outside, stood a tall, prestigious looking man with a thin pointed goatee. The kind a cartoon devil would wear. On his upper lip he kept a thin but well-defined mustache. All of his hair was a dull red color, a shade too dark to be pink and a shade too light to be crimson. It was pomegranate-colored if you had to slap a name on it.

He wore a long black coat, white dress shirt, and black slacks. If you cut out the red in his hair, he'd look like a spy from the dark days of black and white film. Based on his outfit, Rowan assumed he was from a government service. That or a weird religious group.

To his shock, the answer was something far more interesting. As soon as the door opened, the man looked at Rowan curiously, then asked in a formal and polite voice, "You are the mister Rowan Cheke, born August 21st 1992?"

Full of questions, Rowan openly wondered what the guy was here for, "Yeah, why?"

Ignoring the question, he simply rolled his wrist and held out his hand. There was an envelope, with a strange wax seal on the front. An ink symbol marked right above that, a shield divided in four parts, with each part holding an animal and a large "H" in the center. Below the ink mark, a red wax seal was marked with the exact same symbol.

Rowan took the letter, reading the label on the other side to make sure it was actually addressed to him. Then he read it again. And again. Nope. The words didn't change. It really was his letter.

The envelope had no stamp on it, and no return address. Only his name and home address. Rowan had always been a curious kid, and this mysterious messenger, mysterious letter, and mysterious writing was a perfect trifecta of unsolved mystery. He was about to rip the envelope open before his curiosity overflowed, when the visitor interrupted him.

"A moment please, mister Cheke?"

Unhappy to be pulled away from the letter's hidden mysteries, Rowan nevertheless looked back at the pomegranate-haired weirdo. "Um, sure. What do you need?"

Mildly offended that the boy saw him as a weirdo, the suited weirdo cut straight to his business. "I need to speak with you and your father. With regards to an... Important matter."

Seeing no reason not to let the stranger in, Rowan left the front porch to fetch his dad. But he hung back just long enough to see the man's footsteps. They were light and airy, like he was walking on a sheet of glass.

Rowan found his dad in the backyard, just finishing up with the last of his digging. Something about new fence posts. "Hey dad! There's a man here to talk to us. He brought me a letter. Looks real weird too, but he walks like you do."

John understood immediately, even if Rowan didn't. The kid was sharp. Back in college John had taken up boxing. He had been a natural, and could have gone pro had he wanted a career that would last five years at best. John was good, but not great. But the sport stuck with him, and even now their basement was full of training equipment.

When someone trains in combat, they can't hide it. Your body builds the movement into your muscle memory. Based on Rowan's comment, their visitor was either a professional athlete, or ex-military.

Father and son entered the cluttered kitchen, where the stranger stood politely until john offered him a chair. Taking a seat at the kitchen table, the man cleared his throat and addressed the duo. "Now i suppose you both have questions. To answer your previous one Rowan, my name is Aston Vivre. To answer the questions you will have momentarily, I am a teacher for a... Rather 'Exclusive' private school."

When Aston said 'Exclusive' his lip curled into a ghostly smile. As if it were an inside joke.

John was intrigued. He had no knowledge of a school that employed professors with combat training. More importantly, he doubted Rowan would be able to attract a professor from such a school. Rowan was a good kid, but a less than stellar student. These kinds of schools usually went for straight 'A' students. Rowan was more of the solid 'B' type.

"Alright, we'll bite. What's this school for and why do they want Rowan?" John asked with a curiously raised eyebrow.

Aston chuckled and placed his hands on the table. "Simple, and yet complex. Infinitely complex. The school is known as Hogwarts-" Here John narrowed his eyes at the man. He had heard of no school with a name that ridiculous, which meant it was either foreign, private, or imaginary. John was not a man who appreciated being scammed. But he held his tongue, and allowed the man to continue. "-and it is a highly Exclusive-" There was that ghost of a grin again, "-private school. A private school where every student has one thing in common..."

The tension built as Aston trailed off. This man practically fed off of showmanship. He brought his hands together and whispered under his breath. Beneath the sleeve of his dress shirt, he held a wand. 10 and a half inches long, and made of Westeria with a simple core of fresh-grown red fern, it was a wand built for Charms. The living plant core, costly to produce and drastically reducing the maximum output of the wand, would be useless in the hands of any other wizard. But the benefit comes in the form of hyper efficient casting, and an enhanced intelligence. All wands are sentient, but most are made of dead materials. So with his wands minor intellect, Aston was chanelling it within his sleeve, casting a spell with arm movements instead of hand ones.

Aston was swirling his hands together as the tension in the room grew in leaps and bounds. Finally he opened them, and a small orb of light was cupped within his hands. "Magic."

Before anyone could comment, the orb folded outwards, creating what looked like a three dimensional rendition of a memory. Aston's memory to be precise. The fifth round of Westminster dueling tournament, circa 1995. When he had dueled Reinhold Brandt, the Flame of Western Europe. It was one of his favorite memories, and Aston had fond memories from the fight.

Reinhold was a tall man, built like a brick, with a strong chin and light stubble-beard. His wand was a custom piece, supposedly possessing a core of pure Fiendfyre, magically contained within. Reinhold was currently swinging a magical whip of hot-white fire, which Aston barely ducked, dodged, and blocked with an endless array of shields.

Rowan and John Cheke looked on in stunned awe as the battle played out. Both duelists were impressive, the more powerful Reinhold with his large flame spells that grew larger and more grandiose with every moment. Aston with his powerful shields and fighting style rooted in dodging.

It was incredible. But Reinhold could only throw around so much power before his own ran low. The large German man was casting spells quite slowly now, and none of them had their previous power. Finally he cast the same whip he'd started with, only for the fire to sputter out. Instantly Aston was on him with a half-dozen bright red stunners, which his winded opponent had no chance to dodge. The memory faded, the 3d images flickering away while the real Aston sat there smiling.

The muggle and muggleborn wizard were obviously stunned, and ever the showman, Aston gave them a small bow and a witty comment. "So I take it you are interested in our fine school?"


End file.
